


Mother

by Kimmuendo



Category: The Giver Series - Lois Lowry
Genre: Danger, Drama, F/M, Loss, Romance, Unrequitted, Yearning, ostracized
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimmuendo/pseuds/Kimmuendo
Summary: A story from Son: the last of the Giver Quartet novels. A long time ago, Einar had loved a girl so much he showed her how to climb the cliff that locks the village in, so that she might leave him behind to find her long lost son. Now he has back something that had been taken from him long ago. Finally, after seven years, he will follow her.





	1. One

_A/N: I've no rights to the Giver quartet. All I have to offer is my love, after Ms. Lowry stole my heart, broke it into pieces, and handed it back to me. Gladly, I accepted it._

_Thank you for reading_.

 

Mother 

 

_One_

 

The night before, he had only had half of each foot, but he awoke in the morning with both of them whole.

At first he hadn’t noticed. He swung his feet out from under the skins, reached for the sticks that had served as his crutches for so many years, and rose on unsteady soles. It was after the first step something felt wrong, and after the second he looked down.

It was a queer sensation, registering the image of two whole feet where for more than a dozen winters there had been none, feeling his toes press into the floor while at the same time wondering if he had not been filling the spaces with an imagined sensation of having toes. Still leaning on his sticks, he watched as he took a step. Yes, it was a whole foot, his foot. He stepped again. Both feet were weak, however, like a newborn’s. Or, at least, the small muscles from leg to lower back did not know how to compensate for feet he had grown accustomed to being without.

He stood staring at them. Then he hobbled his way over to the chair at his eating table—still using his sticks—and sat so that he could better examine this phenomenon. He lifted one leg and draped it across his other knee, rotating his foot about his ankle this way and that. Tentatively, he tried to wiggle his toes, but found he had long forgotten how to command that which had not been there. He gave similar treatment to the opposite foot. Then, with nothing else left to discover, he stood, and without the sticks, he took a step.

Then another.

He walked to the front door, opened it wide, and stepped out into the summer morning. The grass outside was wet and dewey. He scrunched his toes in it. Toes.

_Imagine that! Toes!_

He smiled so genuinely it hurt his face, for the last time he had smiled in such a way…

“Claire.”

It was the first time in seven years that Einar had said her name out loud.

* * *

For much of the day, Einar attempted going about his duties without his sticks, but found that he was still as awkward on his feet as a newborn foal that he had to lean on them for respite every hour or so. The toes were incongruous with the movements of the rest of his feet, and became a hindrance from time to time, such as turning around to tend to a lamb, or stepping up into his house from the outside (it was raised on a slight foundation, just high enough that he would catch the front of his foot on the lip and tumble inside). Despite his efforts, he did not complete half the work he had intended to complete just the day prior. Forgivably, he was distracted.

He did not leave his hut on the hill to show the rest of the village and he did not intend to, not for a while. This was something he had to ponder on his own first. They would have endless questions to which he himself did not yet have the answers.

Once, he had been Fierce Einar up until the day he had limped back from the looming cliff that locked them on the seaside, having lost half his feet climbing it. He then became Lame Einar, a limping laughing stock. Though he was offered praise for his courage and gratitude for his return, it was the pity in their eyes that scorned the most. The price to pay for reaching for the sun.

In a way, that’s what it had been. But they did not understand. He could not make them. If he could, he would not want to. For it was not the fall that had rendered him feeble—there had never been a physical fall, but a symbolic one—it was the man (or demon, if such a thing existed) waiting for him at the top.

“You’re cold, I can see,” the dark man had said. “I could save your toes, make you warm again.”

Even now, Einar could not quite describe what he felt. He did want to be warm again, yes. But he very much feared being warm, whatever it meant.

He had said no, in so many words, and the dark man said one more chance. Just one.

When Einar declined again, he found himself paralyzed. It was unnatural, evil magic. No matter what he did, his limbs would not obey his commands. The dark man produced a knife so sinister that even now, in Einar’s nightmares, it was the image of the knife that haunted him, not the numb horror after the blade had landed, nor the burst of red in the snow when half of each foot was severed from him.

At the time, Einar could imagine no reason that the dark man had slowed the bleeding enough to save his life other than to watch him suffer for the rest of it, crippled, ostracized, cursed to a life with his father. But not long after Einar returned, something withered inside that bitter old man, and with it his father withered away too. At least Einar had been spared him. But everything else that had once been promised the tall, strong, fearsome Einar had sapped away. No longer able to live his life as a fisherman, he made himself a willful recluse, and tended to the critters in the meadow outside the village. He provided the women mutton for meals, bones for buttons, wool for socks, leather for sandals and sinew for sewing. For what could have been, it was a life. A fine life.

A life. One. Alone.

The strength he once possessed deteriorated without use, the quiet confidence he embodied passed away, and eventually even the fortitude to hold a conversation became as deformed as his feet.

He was still barely a man when Water Claire washed ashore, russet hair and flecked eyes green like his meadow, and slowly she found a way into his life, as water finds a way to seep through cracks and rejoin the stream. At first they had called her selkie, then they had called her wanton, and finally they had named her Mother, long after she had left, for he had trained her how to climb out of their village—and his life—to find a babe she had birthed long ago, whose name she did not even know.

Then he had decided this was why the dark man had let him live after all, for the worst pain he had ever endured was showing the only person he had ever loved how to leave him behind forever.

He had never found her red rock—the symbol she said she would throw down from the top of the cliff to show them all that she had made it, that she was alive, but somehow he knew that having his feet back...it was her. It had to be because of her.

* * *

The summer days were long, and though the sun had started to sink, he knew he would have still plenty of daylight left before the stars would take to the sky. He wrapped his feet in leather thongs he had fashioned from old scraps (for he did not possess shoes proper enough for whole feet) and made his way down the meadow path and up to the rocky cliff face, to the place where he had once made his climb, to the place where he had bid her goodbye with a kiss.

He had not been able to properly walk this path since he was but a willful young boy who fancied himself a man. Once she had gone he had returned here every day for years, searching where he could for her stone. Neither he nor Alys, his only friend and ally, could search very far. At the behest of Alys, some of the other villagers had come in search for the red stone. Able-bodied Bethan, who had been like a younger sister to Claire, would scour the piles; her little sister Elen would come, and their mother Bryn would too, on her good days. Even Tall Andras had come in search of the rock, despite having scorned Claire once he learned she had lain with a man without being wed, and seemed hopeful of finding a trace of her. But they found nothing, and eventually the village lost interest in trying to find her memory, Alys passed on in old age, and Einar was left with a terrible, yawning hole in his chest where the yearning was enough to buckle him.

Knowing it was folly, he stepped onto the rocky slope anyway, and the nervousness had his toes already beading with sweat. Carefully, very carefully, he picked his way up the slope until he reached the rock wall, calling memories back from another life. Thinking twice before he made a movement, he stepped and cleared rocks away, making sure to hold his balance, sometimes on his knees.

After the world dimmed around him, he stopped his folly and stood against the rock wall. Of course he would not find her red rock. Not because the others had already combed this place for a sign, but because she had never thrown it. She did not make it.

 _No_. He pinched the bridge of his nose. No, she was not gone. Again, he looked at his newfound feet. If he could be whole and walk again, then there was no doubt that such a miracle as her could still exist.

“No,” he said aloud. Firm. As resolute as he had been half his life ago. He looked up at the cliff and could not even see the top, it was so high.

No. He would go after her. He would climb again. One more chance.

Just one.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't hide his secret for long, nor can he sit idle.

_Two_

 

The first person to notice was Bethan.

No one was due in his part of the world for some time, so he did not bother being discreet amongst his sheep, trying to pull blades of grass with his clumsy toes. When he looked up to find her standing there with a basket of goods to trade, open-mouthed and ashen, he realized he had no idea how to explain the miracle, and had simply shoved the burden of it aside so that he might focus on retraining his steps.

Bethan was a woman now, but he could see she was torn between running back to the village to tell everyone what she had seen, like she may have done as a child, and remaining there to ask him questions about it. So he helped her by sitting on the flat stone in the pen and beckoning her with a hand to join him.

She ventured inside, all aghast like she was approaching a mythical creature. Then she sat beside him, staring at his feet. “How?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, again trying to wiggle his toes. Only his big toes curled while some of the others twitched. “I woke two days past to find them returned to me.”

“Ret—? But you lost your feet. When you fell.”

He shook his head. “Someone stole them from me. At the top. Now he gave them back.”

She stared. “Was it a witch you met at the top?”

“I don’t think so.”

“A deity?”

“No.”

She searched him, bewildered. “There be no herb that can do this. The starfish can grow back their feet, but we people…” Perplexed, she beseeched him: “What did you do to get them back?”

He looked at her with sympathy, and said softly, “I woke up.”

She wrung her hands on her basket’s edge. “Why did you not come tell us?”

Einar looked out towards the grove of trees that marked the beginning of the meadow, and offered her no answer.

“No, I’m sorry. I can understand why.”

“I’m going to go find her.”

The sudden change in the conversation was like a strike. Bethan leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Claire?”

“Aye.”

Her mouth became a hard line. “No, Einar, you shouldn’t.”

There was something harrowing in her tone. Quizzical, he turned to study her. He knew that look. It was the same look Alys had given Claire when they first told their healer the girl would make the climb.

“I will not go until I’m ready, Bethan.”

The fear did not abate in her eyes, however. “I need to show you something. I will return.” She stood, walked a few paces, then stopped. She turned back to Einar, uncertain. “Unless...do you wish to come with me?”

He thought about walking along the village road, through the market, past all the intrusive stares. “No, I’ll stay.” As she walked away, he called after her, “Please don’t tell them.”

Bethan looked at him, serious, and nodded, short and curt. She left the basket at the gate and then she was gone.

Alone, he was given room to ponder. What was done that brought him back his gait? Death, he was certain, of the dark man who lived atop the cliff. Seven years had passed since Claire made her climb. She must have taken his offer at the top. What did he trade her for her son? How did she overcome that, and come to enact revenge on that creature? He knew without doubt that it was her who ended the trader, just like he had known not to take the offer of warmth that day half a lifetime ago.

He had barely thought about what Bethan might want to show him by the time she returned. She approached him slowly, hands clasped. He watched her curiously. The concern didn’t come until he saw there were tears in her eyes.

“Alys made me promise not to show you, ever,” she said, then opened her hands. “I’m sorry.”

In her palm was a rock tightly wrapped in red cloth, nearly covered in dried blood.

* * *

He would wake in the morning and lift himself on his toes, then slowly sink back down to his heels. At first he reached for the wall for support, then thought on how he had tied her hands while she ran and jumped so that she might learn to rely on her feet alone.

No longer did he touch the wall for balance.

Though difficult, doing the exercises was the easy part.

He kept her stone, bloody as it was, under his skins where he slept.

* * *

He was sitting by his fire, holding the red stone like holding a baby bird. That it was covered in blood could mean anything. He did not doubt she would have injured herself somewhere along the way up; it would have been unavoidable. This blood could have been a sliced palm, a battered leg. It had made it to the bottom after all, hadn’t it? She had thrown it.

Or the cliff had thrown her.

That was what others must have thought. That was why Alys had made young Bethan promise not to tell him what they had found. Claire died seven years ago on the climb to the top and they did not want him to live with that—the failure of letting the woman he loved die.

If she had fallen, they should have found her, or at least a trace of her. There were very little places where her body could have been trapped up there. Most of the cliff was a sheer incline, and what ledges did exist were narrow enough that a girl falling onto them would have bounced off on her way down. Yet there had been nothing. Of that he was sure they could not keep from him—a crumpled body on the rocky floor.

He made a pocket on the inside of his sweater and tucked her stone away inside.

* * *

For some time after his return from his failed climb, Einar had sunk into a slough of despair that kept him from tending to his strength. The muscles in his legs as well as his arms had decayed, his belly had softened, and his spirit had withered. After his father passed, something had been returned to him, like he had remembered what the world was made of, and what his role within it was. He found all the comfort and companionship he needed in his sheep, and slowly, bit by bit, he had begun to regain what strength he could.

Back then, while Claire had been training to climb the cliff, lifting her body from the floor with her trunk and her arms, Einar had been doing the same. She would lift her chin to a branch in her doorway, and so he did too in his own hut. Not long after they began her training, his upper body had been restored to its former fettle.

Now he stood at the base of the path up to the cliff, early in the morning so that no one else would find him. When he started to run, he tripped and fell, so he righted himself again and took off slower this time, being sure to lift his feet higher than what he was used to.

Halfway to the waterfall a stitch in his side doubled him over, and forced him to stop. He heaved for breath, ashamed and annoyed. When Claire first began this run, she had not needed to stop for breath. But now Einar was nearly twice the age she had been at that time.

He thought on what he had taught her. Calm yourself, think on the problem, and find the solution.

Einar waited until his breathing was deep and even, then started up on the path again, slower and steadier. He reached the waterfall then ran back, still slow. He did not need to stop for rest. He did this again, then again. The next day, he picked up his speed, and again the next, each step that much closer to her.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Einar receives a new apprentice, and they both witness something harrowing.

_Three_

Bethan had kept her word and had not told anyone about his incomprehensible recovery. No one else discovered him, and he wondered how long it could last. He decided he would restrict his dealings with just her. After a week, he realized it could not last long. Eventually he would need to enlist the help of another to subsist.

So the first person he decided to willingly share his secret with was Bethan’s younger sister.

Elen came bouncing up to his hut, singing high, like a parakeet. Einar wanted to sing back to her like one, like Claire’s pet bird, Yellow-wing. He held his tongue, though, and waited for the girl. He did not know her well enough yet to share that with her.

Though still young, she was just reaching an age where boys would be sending her furtive glances. She would welcome them too, no doubt, and in fact draw them. For all that her mother was reserved and adverse to attention, Elen was quite the opposite. In fact, she was the antithesis of Einar; joyous, adoring, sprightly, and full of love to share.

“Sure Foot Einar?” she called. She had not seen him tucked away behind his hut chopping wood for the looming fall.

“I be here,” he said, rounding his home.

She smiled at the sight of him. Elen was not a slight girl, but sturdy and strong. She would be able to handle a man’s work, had it been given to her, despite the childlike amiability she displayed. “Bethan gave me your message,” she said. “I came to ask you when you want me here to tend to the critters.”

Einar was stunned to silence for a moment. Of all the people in the village he had thought to ask, he knew Elen would be the one of the few who would accept. It was the way she phrased it so suddenly, that yes, of _course_ she would work at Einar’s side, when shall we begin? Everyone else knew him as the bitter shut-in on the hill; Elen greeted him, someone she never really talked to, as a beloved friend.

He wiped his brow with his handkerchief to give himself time to answer. “You be willing to help me now? I’ll show you where they graze.”

“Aye,” she said cheerfully, and followed him to the field.

Einar had shorn them not one moon past, and some had begun to grow their coats back for the coming autumn. Two sheep had been put down for their mutton, the meat traded to Liam through Bethan to sell at market, so Einar had been left with a flock of twenty-two sheep in all, eight of them lambs. Einar had never known Elen to approach the sheep, but now she tiptoed among them carefully, smiling like she had found a treasure trove. “They’re a delight to see,” she said softly to him, kneeling down in the grass and holding her hand out for a lamb. It shied from her until she filled her hand with grass, then it carefully took the offering, wagging its tail gleefully.

“You can come by in the evenings, just before the sun sets. I’ll have you help me herd them home into their hut. See?” He motioned to their nightly shelter. “Then I’ll show you more.”

She nodded, but was still entranced by the lamb that had so happily eaten from her hand, and giggled as it buried its snout into her palm in search for more. When it moved on, she softened her smile and looked up at him. “Why did you ask for me?” she said. “Mum said you don’t ever talk to anyone.”

He gave himself time to put his answer in words. “I want someone to love them dearly, when I’m gone.”

She furrowed her brows. “Gone? You be leaving?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“It be where I belong.”

She looked sad but understanding. “Bethan telled me about how you fell.”

“Aye.”

“And about Mother Claire.”

He remained silent for a moment. “She watched you a great deal. Do you remember her at all?”

Elen  shrugged. “I remember red hair, and...toes.” She inclined her head. “Do you think she be up there somewhere?”

Slowly, he nodded.

“I hope she is.” She looked to the sheep. “I would take care of them for certain. You’d have nary a thing to worry about.”

He gave her a small smile. “You’re a kind woman, Elen.”

She smiled back, then turned to be on her way.

“Elen?”

She looked back.

“Sure Foot Einar?” he asked.

She nodded. “It be what Bethan and me call you.”

Then she left.

* * *

 

Winter came suddenly, harsh and unrelenting. Bitter cold swept across the village, and from time to time the gale would sweep up the hill and pierce through the trees to Einar’s hut. He and Elen would bundle up in more clothes and wrap the sheep in extra furs, but the cold still found a way to seep in. Early on, he made himself the first pair of proper shoes from some of his skins, to best keep his feet warm outdoors.

In the mornings, Einar would run, a brisk a run as it was, with a sack of rocks strapped to his back. Every day he would add another stone, just like he had told _her_ to so many years ago. Of course, he slipped and fell more than once. One of those times he landed on his sack of rocks, and his back was out of sorts for a week after that.

At night, he would tie a rope from one end of his hut to the other, and walk back and forth across it with his hands hanging at his sides. He began lifting one leg, lowering himself down, and standing up again. He would still lose his balance. Always, he would step back on the rope and try again.

When he slept, he would make the climb again. Most times, she would be at the top, smiling softly.

Elen would come every day. It only took a few days before Einar started to sing to her as a bird. She delighted in it even more than Claire had. The wind howled outside his door, the snows fell ever harder, and the air was bitter cold as to nip at the nose, but Einar was finally beginning to feel warm again.

Spring came soon, and the snow relented within days, the sun beating down upon it. Soon his ewes grew fat, and Einar began to teach Elen how to look for signs of pregnancy, and how to catch the lambs when they were birthed.

“Like how Bethan do it with the wee babes,” Elen said.

“Almost.” He smiled some. “The ewes are better at birthing than our women.”

Elen seemed to take this as an affront, but an affectionate affront, if anything. But as soon as the first of their flock gave birth, she told him she saw what he had meant.

“I be’d preparing myself for blood and screaming,” she had said, laughing, as she watched the lamb scramble towards its mother, nudging for milk. “He walks right out of his mother’s belly!”

Elen was never weary nor wary; she accepted all tasks handed to her with a smile, and saw all the flowers in a field others would only see weeds. He was glad he had picked her as his replacement, and that she had willingly agreed. Most of all, he was happy to have her company. It had been some time since he was around someone who was so full of good. It had been a long time since he was just around _someone_.

That night, Einar squatted on one leg with the other held out in front of him, and how steady he was made him smile.

* * *

 

Elen came running up the path late one afternoon to find Einar holding himself suspended between two trees, feet pressed into the trunk of one, back wedged against the other.

“Eira is having her babe,” Elen said. It was the first time he had ever heard dismay in her voice. “Bethan has asked for help. Will you please come?”

Einar lowered himself straight away and followed her. They ran to the village together.

On the way he wondered why Bethan would call on him. He had never been present at a birth besides his own, and then he had taken his mother’s life while she gave him his. For his flock he was hardly of use; he knew what to do but what to do was so little, for the sheep were fine enough without him. What use he would be to Bethan, to poor Eira, or even Elen, when they all had much more experience than he?

For a brief moment, in midst of all this worry, he had been amazed. A flash rushed behind his eyes, and it truly sunk in for the first time.

_I’m running._

He had not run on this path since his father was alive, since before Water Claire trickled into his life. The last time he had headed in this direction, gone to another’s home, he had been a different person. Whatever power existed in the world, it had deemed Einar deserving of his legs. He had been given a second chance.

Then the brief dread: He was headed into the village, and they would see he had feet, and he still lacked a way to explain it.

The echo of Eira’s scream reached their ears. Both of them ran harder.

Even before they had crossed the threshold, Bethan was calling to them. “Elen, fetch me more water! Einar, come hold her!”

They came upon a terrible scene: Eira was clutching the top of a chair, leaning heavily on it, roaring with all her small lungs would give her. Beneath her was a pool of blood.

“Come here, now,” Bethan said, “stand here. Good. Eira, wrap your arms around his neck. Move, now!” Laboriously, Eira clasped one arm around Einar’s shoulder, then the other. “Now, to the floor,” she said, and she guided them both down, Einar on his knees and Eira squatting in front of him. She was sobbing into Einar’s shoulder. Already there was blood on his tunic.

Elen came inside with a bucket sloshing with water. She set it down beside her sister, and Bethan scooped a cup inside it while dropping a cloth. “Drink,” Bethan implored, lifting the cup to her friend’s lips. Eira tried, but sputtered on the first sip, instead letting out a guttural yell.

Somehow, in a dark sort of way, Einar could understand why his father had treated him as he did, knowing that the birth of his son had done this to his wife.

Not knowing what else to do, Einar bent his head next to Eira’s ear as Bethan bid her sister to boil water for a tea, and spoke in low, soothing tones, despite the shrieking the poor mother gave. “This is just a moment,” he whispered. “Your child will be with you soon.”

She began to weep. Einar stroked her damp hair, her sweaty back, and hummed peacefully to her, sure that if she had the strength she would rend him asunder for even trying to be calm.

“Stop pushing,” Bethan said, sudden and sharp. “Elen, bring the tea. Eira, you must drink this. All of it, now, your child depends on it.” Eira pulled away when she scalded her lips on the hot water. “It’s not a thing, drink it,” Bethan demanded. With a growl, Eira tried again, gulping down hot tea. Einar held her firmly, willing comfort to pass through his hands into her.

Bethan reached between them and felt Eira’s belly. “Get her to the bed,” Bethan told Einar. With his renewed dexterity and control, he slowly rose to his feet, bringing her with him, and fit an arm under her to carry her across the room. Her lower half was drenched in blood.

“Stay with her,” Bethan said to him, once he set Eira down. Bethan moved aside Eira’s ankles to inspect her progress. Eira gripped Einar’s hand near hard enough to turn it blue.

Bethan’s commands stopped. She was hidden behind Eira’s skirt, and Eira could only cry louder. Elen, who had went to refill the tea, stopped on her way to the bed and stared, pale and frightened. Elen was not an easily frightened girl, and Einar did not consider himself a brave man, not in that moment.

Eira beat her free fist on the bed, then on Einar, and she gave a great shudder and screamed loud enough that he could hear her vocal cords fail under the strain. Her scream tapered away with her breath, and he heard Bethan pull a child from her then.

Eira’s screams became gasps, then thin, whispering breaths. Nought else made a sound.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After sorrow comes rage.

_Four_  


“Go,” Bethan told Einar, crying freely, “before the village comes and finds you was here.”

“Why?”

“Keep your secret, just a little longer.”

Einar was loath to leave them there. He ought to help them through preparing the bodies and the coffin. He should carry them to their resting place amongst the trees. But he knew they were just as well without him, like his sheep were.

He slipped away while Bethan and Elen cried together over the bodies. Sneaking around the back, he wove in between huts and shacks until he made it to the forested path that led to his hidden home. On the way, he passed Alys’s old home, Bethan’s new hut. From there he ambled home, and he had to become stone again to make it.

Bethan came to him after the funeral to tell him what had transpired. Not long after Einar had left, Eira’s husband, Ivan, had arrived home from the sea in a similar way that Einar’s father had decades ago. But this man did not fill with hate upon learning that his wife and child had passed—he was destroyed with utter sorrow. Bethan described the scene to him: Ivan had folded in on himself, curled on the floor like an infant, and made such a tragic sound that the description of it made Einar’s throat tighten and his nose burn.

“I didn’t know what to do, after a while,” Bethan admitted. “I thought I had done wrong by her. I kept thinking, ‘This has to work’…but none did. I don’t know what happened.”

He weighed his words carefully. “It is easy to blame yourself when you lose someone. It is harder to accept that you done all you could.” He thought about Claire, and was suddenly uncertain whether or not she did still live. He swallowed. “It will be a long fight for you, shedding that guilt. It will take time. I will be here, if you need someone to talk to.”

Bethan looked straight ahead. “She was my friend.” Her voice had reached a deep well in her chest, and all it carried up was a sound beyond mourning.

Slowly, Einar offered his arms to Bethan, and she sank into them, quietly crying on his chest, shrinking under the weight of grief.

As the sun set, she bid him farewell to get home before dark. After putting his sheep to shelter, he stood up in the meadow clearing and watched the skies darken. Stars filled the sky, one long silver streak bisecting the black. He stared and stared until his neck grew sore.

She had to go, to be with her son.

Only then did he finally cry.

* * *

The next day, Elen did not come. Nor the day after that. Einar did not mind, and went about his chores and training as normal. But half a moon had passed and still she did not come. He was tempted to go out and find her, but was uncertain of the risks in doing so.

Eventually Bethan arrived to trade materials. Einar had been waiting by his door for her, and stood as soon as she emerged through the trees.

“I’ve not seen Elen for days,” he said. Then he waited for Bethan to fill the spaces.

But she did not. She stared at him, eyes heavy with sorrow still, and she handed the basket to him. “I’m not certain if she will come back,” she said, hoarse.

Einar accepted the basket, and Bethan left before she could be traded with. He watched her go, bottling all the questions that her answer rose.

He tended his sheep, he ran his path, he held Claire’s stone, all in solitude. Though it was a burden he had shouldered long, so long it had become part of his skin, he had never felt so bare, raw, nor vulnerable. Elen was a strong fire in a dreadful winter, a fire that had been very suddenly doused.

* * *

He was on the floor of his shack, one arm tucked into his lower back, propped up on the other, slowly lowering and raising himself, when he heard her call his name from the door.

He stood, pulled his wool shirt over him, and answered her call.

She was white and trembling, much like the last time he had seen her. “They’re coming for you,” Elen said hurriedly.

“Breathe, girl,” he said, ushering her inside. He sat her on his skins and collected a bowl of water for her to drink, but she blathered even as he handed it to her.

“Delwyth knowed we called on you to help with Eira. She saw us running. She told my parents, and they kept it hushed because they respected you, but it got out and now everyone thinks you got your feet back by trading with a witch, and that’s why Eira and her babe died—”

Elen dissolved into tears. “I wanted to come back, but they didn’t let me. I had to get away to tell you, though. They’ll be here soon, and when they see your feet, I don’t know…”

Einar stood still. It was too soon. He was not ready; he had to be ready.

“I’m sorry, Einar,” Elen murmured.

He pulled her into a hug and held on tight. “You have no need to be sorry. You just may have saved my life.”

She clutched his shirt, a fistful at mid-back. “Please don’t die,” she said.

He pulled away, then collected a sack that Bethan had used to bring him apples once, the leather strips he had briefly used as sandals, skin gloves from the winter, and finally a bladder he sometimes brought with him on runs, quickly dipping it in his basin. He looked down at small Elen one more time. “This all be yours now.”

Her chin quivered.

“I’ll remember you, always,” he said.

“Please make it to the top,” she said.

Then he left.

He heard them coming when he ran up towards the boulder field, and managed to skirt them entirely. In the beginning he rushed over the rocks, not being nearly as careful as he should have been. When he slipped and nearly fell into a crack that would have broken his leg and left him for dead, he forced himself to stop, then took each step more carefully. His mind had been on this climb for years and years; all of him had to be here, now.

When he neared the twin boulders that marked the crevasse he had to clear, he cursed, realizing it would be nightfall by the time he reached the large crevice in the face of the cliff. Perilous. His choice was to die climbing the cliff, or remain and die at the hands of those who did not know.

_hink only on the climb_ , he had told her, again and again. He put aside his fears and slid through the boulders, as carefully as he could. He still felt his sack bump against the rock behind him, but nothing broke or tore. He climbed the slanting rock on the other side, made it to the sharp ledge, then steadied himself before leaping across the gap. He did not look down once.  
He flew through the air, then down. He wobbled on the landing, but maintained his footing, and stayed fast on the ledge.

Without wasting time, he began to climb the rock face, alternating weigh from one foot to the next, hanging from his joints, and moving slow.

By sunset he had reached the thin ledge with the tree, the one which he needed to throw a noose around in order to climb.

A noose.

He had left the rope behind in his hut.

He looked out over the world below him. All he could see were trees before the abrupt boundary of the sea stretched and stretched before him. The only way he could tell where his home was—where the rope would be—was the pillar of thick black smoke rising up from below.

 


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climb.

He closed his eyes. _Breathe_. First in through his nose, then out through his mouth. As he exhaled, he let the consternation go with it.

Leather strips. He had those, at least. Carefully, he twisted the sack in front of him. Using his knees to hold it, he collected the leather, his gloves, then removed his shirt. It would be bitter cold in the night, but if he kept moving, he could battle it.

He tore the sweater apart into a long strip, then fastened leather strips to the ends. He tied a noose together, tested its strength, and coiled it close to his arm. He looked up at the tree. He had expected something much bigger bursting from the cliff side, but instead he was faced with a chimera of a plant, a new, thin pine emerging from something stunted and ruined. He carefully studied its branches, picking the ideal anchor, and began to spin the rope.

He caught nothing twice, then tangled the rope on the dead stump. The world was dimming, and if he did not make it up the wall to the crevasse now, he would be doomed to stand on the small ledge until sunlight rose again, and he would surely die before he saw it.

With controlled, deft movements, he plucked the rope from the tree. Not wishing to squander what little luck remained to him, he shifted his stance an inch, moved his fingers slightly down his rope, and tried once more.

The rope flew true this time, and hooked around the right branch. There was no time to waste; swiftly he climbed, confidently sweeping his feet up onto the wall and walking upwards, with barely any effort on his part.

The tree creaked and his rope sank.

He stopped, breathed in, and breathed out. The creaking ceased. He slowed his pace, taking care not to upset the balance of the tree again.

Below him was a fall that would take him nearly a minute to crash upon the ground.

The last remaining light embossed the tree into memory, and he kept the image in mind as he inched ever closer to it. At the tree was another brief ledge, and at the foot of it, a narrow crevasse, with a tall, winding tunnel. He would climb it in complete darkness, relying on only his memory, his instincts, and his touch.

The tree sank by another foot when he was near the top. He tensed. Under his gloves his hands were covered in sweat. There was hardly any light left to see by. Each move mattered now; if he stressed his rope in just the wrong way, he would perish. Einar gently walked the remaining distance, each movement deliberate and soft. When he was close enough he reached out for the ledge and pulled himself in. Once he had a solid grip on a groove in the rock, he tested out the tree with his foot, tapping it here and there, pushing against it, drawing back when he felt it give. There was a corner at its base that had not yet been stressed which he could fit his big toe. With that anchor he pushed himself up until his other knee found purchase on the ledge. He stared into darkness as he felt for his rope like a blind man, gently tugging this way and that to release it.

There was a groan, a crack, and suddenly the rope was pulling him, so he let it go. The branches rustled as they collided with the ledge below, then there was silence.

Even though it was pitch black already, Einar closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. His breaths were shaky, his heart was beating faster than any drumbeat he had ever heard. At least he was spared the sight of the tree falling.

With a shaking hand, he felt for his pack and reached inside, seeking out his bladder full of water.

After a time, he withdrew his hand and continued to hold himself.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

* * *

 

Though grievously hungry and thirsty, the cold was becoming unbearable; he had to move. The sooner he arrived at the top, the sooner he could find sustenance and warmth.

He touched the stone around him, creating a map of where he was. He felt out the edge, then found his way inward towards the cliff face until he touched the crevasse. He lifted himself up into it, using memory to guide his movements. For years he relived this climb, and he was certain of where each hand and foothold was.

It hurt to swallow and it burned to move. His arms and legs were starting to cramp horribly as he moved from one hold to the next, so he would take his time, shifting his weight to rest against the wall and shake out the tension. There were certain moves that he had to swing a great deal upward to reach the next grip, and he misremembered just how far they were. He would jump, reach, and fall back down on his pivot, then rethink his course and try again.

After the fourth attempt to grab the next hold failed, he stopped, wedged his lower back into the wall, and dug in his heels. When he sank down it was in a comfortable squat, with his body weight holding him in place. He let his arms dangle as he breathed. Fatigue was surmounting, frustration was building, and the end was not in sight. He knew these things would not help him on his way, but knowing it and dispelling it were two different things. He would breathe again, and let go some of the panic with it. Still, a trace would remain, and it would fester.

Then he thought on why he was climbing. He had been escaping the village, those who no longer trusted his presence...but he was also climbing towards her memory. He had once told her it was better to do that--reach for something rather than retreat it; stronger to love than to scorn.

“Claire,” he said out loud once more. A small, hoarse sound.

With one last deep breath, he reached up for the next hold.

And slipped.

The tunnel beat him from all sides as he fell. When he tried to reach out to catch himself, his arm was struck back, and he could command it no more.

He landed wrong on his leg and came to a halt, wedged against a tight point in the rock to keep him from tumbling out into the open air.

He had not made such a sound since the man at the top had cut off his feet. His body trembled as he screamed.

He could feel a wet warmth against his leg, but could not see just how much was spilling. Frantically he patted his leg for the wound, but could not touch long, for the agony it brought made faeries dance in his eyes. He still had the sack around his shoulders and a modicum of sense, so he removed the bag, tore a piece from it with shaking hands, and tied it around his leg, in hopes that it would be enough to keep his lifeblood.

He did not stop screaming for some time. If he had been able to see what had become of him, he may have screamed longer. At least he was spared his sight, for once the cloud of pain dispersed hours later, his first thought was how to continue up again.

His eyes had adjusted well to the darkness, and the moon had finally risen in the sky. There was just enough light to see it glinting off the wet stone. The contouring drew a path upward for him to follow.

If he could free himself from the wedge.

Einar slid his good hand over the rock surrounding him. Through minute movements, he gained a better picture of just how he was held, and how to remove himself from the crevasse.

Whenever his leg shifted, his heart would skip a beat and his limbs would jerk involuntarily. It was the pain that kept him pinned.

He leaned until he was supported well enough that the pain was a tolerable throb. Delirious, he laughed. “When Bethan first brought me your bloody stone, I thought this might have happened to you,” he said. When he swallowed, it was on a bone-dry throat. “But it was so unlikely. I knew you must have made it to the top. You don’t make this climb without shedding blood some.”

He chuckled again, though the smile it gave him made his face cramp painfully. He reached for the pocket in his sweater and his hand touched bare skin. The smile died. He had forgotten that he had taken his sweater off to make it into a rope he had lost.

Earlier that day, the sweater was tossed over the back of his chair, and the stone was still sitting under his sleeping skins, where, in his haste, he had left it behind.

He held his hand over his heart, where he expected the pocket to be, and began to cry, a sharp keen that rose up through the crevasse and pierced the night air.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire connects.

In the mornings she would go running. At first she thought she would be starting from the beginning, but she would run another lap, then another, on and on. She explored more of Village than she ever had as a crone. When the sun would take to the sky and all the birds would sing their chorus, she would return home, where her son was still sleeping.

It wasn’t living with someone else that was the problem--she had spent years living alongside Alys, sleeping in the same room. The sharing of a space was not hard to adjust to, even though she had spent the last seven years alone.

Nor was Gabe the issue. Her son would ask her questions but not too many; he would help her with tasks without interfering; he would watch, and he would think carefully. He also had high standards for himself, and when he did not meet those standards he took it hard, and would brood until they were in private together, where she could help him work through his troubles. Before she had even known him she had loved him; now she respected him and called him friend.

It was that she had spent half her life searching for him, to find some way to be in his life. Now she was fully steeped in it, and it was simply too much, too soon. So she would leave before he woke, run, wander through Village, or stand by the river.

A river bordered the community where she and Jonas had grown up. The people were advised by the Elders not to approach it. A child had been lost to it once. But she had worked on the river after she had been decertified as Birthmother, after Gabe had been born with difficulty. She grew fish for the community to eat. It was on the river she boarded a galley in grief when she learned Jonas had run away from the community with her boy. The ship had taken her out to sea on a storm, and the sea took everything but her.

Even now, just watching the river rush around the rocks, froth white with small rapids, gave her rise.

“Does it bring back memories?”

She turned to find Jonas approaching. “Not the ones I want.”

“What brings you out here this morning?”

“I always take the time to explore before others wake. I like the quiet.”

Jonas stood beside her, viewing the rushing water. “I apologize for interrupting it.”

“Don’t apologize. It sounds too much like…”

Jonas nodded, grim. Back in the community where they grew up as children, all missteps were expected to be followed by formal apologies, thin and empty.

“How has it been, living with Gabe?” Jonas asked.

“It’s been hard, but it a good way. He’s so spirited, Jonas. If he had grown up where...I’ve spent little time imagining the man he would be now if he had never left.”

“As have I, for us both.”

“You said that they changed, after you took Gabe away.”

“I believe they did.”

“Why?”

“It was the books.”

“The books?”

“They sent me all the books that my mentor had me read when I became the Receiver of Memory. No one had left the community before. I thought they would demand more from Gabe and I...but they gave us peace instead.”

“You’ve read all those books?”

“I have.”

Claire smiled sheepishly. “I was never one for knowledge.”

Jonas looked at her curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“I wasn’t a particularly bright student. That’s why they assigned me as Birthmother, I think.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. There is intelligence in compassion, and yours is limitless, not just for your son. That deserves recognition.”

She looked at Jonas, unsure of what to say. She had lived in Village for seven years now, and had come to know everyone from a distance. It was only a few weeks ago that she had finally connected with Jonas as an old woman, and she had studied his face then, but she saw something else now that had been hidden in plain view before. What she saw gave her pause.

“I have something to tell you, though I find it difficult to say,” she said.

“Take your time. You have nothing to worry about from me.”

She let the time build. “I think you’re Gabe’s father.”

Jonas let this sink in. “I think so too.”

“Do you know how they…?”

“I think they extracted what they needed from us males before we were Twelves.”

Claire looked up the river. It had seemed so perfect, the world they had lived in, before she had Gabe, before she stopped taking the pills and realized she loved Newchild 36, the boy they cut out from her at the age of fourteen.

“We’ve gone through much to get here,” she said.

“We have.”

They watched the river in silence.

* * *

 

Some individuals held special gifts, Claire learned. These were not simply talents, but powers that granted awesome abilities. Jonas once held the ability to see “beyond,” where his consciousness could travel a great distance to witness events happening over the horizon. His partner Kira used to be able to sew visions into the future.

“I call it veering,” Gabe said.

Claire left her spoon in her stew and looked at him intently. “What do you mean by that?”

“That’s what it feels like.” He was looking into his stew, but he had also put down his spoon so that he could talk with his hands. “First it goes quiet. Then there’s a moment when everything is black, and there’s this...rush. Then I’m someone else for a little while. Everything about them...it’s me.” He stopped and looked at her. His face fell.

“Is it the man you destroyed?” she asked softly.

“It wasn’t a man.”

“He was a person. He was real. And he had a gift as well, but his was unfortunate. Dark and terrible.” She put her hand on his arm. “We don’t have to talk about it yet.”

“I want to. I want to help you understand. If only you could veer into me.”

She laughed. “I don’t need to veer to understand you. You are strong person, inside and out, and you fought through something terrible to get here.” She blanched.

“Do you really know what happened?” he said.

“You confronted him, saw through him, and undid him.”

“I veered into him. I understood what evil was, and what it needed to live.” He looked at his food, seemingly without appetite. “I starved it.”

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “That is horrific.”

“I felt stronger because of it, actually. It was the thought of you that got me through it.” He looked up at her, tears in his eyes, and she reached for him, holding him as tightly as she had when he came up the path after defeating Trademaster, when at last she was young again. It was the sort of embrace that marked the end of a very long, trying journey.

“Mother,” he said, like he was trying a new word in a different language, “Would you let me...”

She pulled back to look him in the eye. Without hesitation, she said, “Of course.”

He swallowed. Then he closed his eyes. For a moment she saw a movement in his face, but it was gone before she could understand what it was that had transpired. For a moment, all was still. She could not tell if he had started or not. She was expecting to feel something.

Then he began to cry, great, wracking sobs that doubled him over. He buried his face in her shoulder and she held him close. It was enough to draw out tears of her own.

Still crying, he pulled away from her. “We have to go back,” he said.

“Go back?”

“For Einar.”


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire descends.

The first thing she ruled out was the ocean.

“I can’t, Gabe.”

“I’ll make a sturdy boat,” he said. “It wouldn’t be like before.” She had told him the story of how she had fled their community when Jonas left, and she stepped on a boat destined to be lost to the waves.

She sat silently, opening and closing her eyes. Then she held her arms and squeezed them, holding on tight through a tumultuous storm.

“I _can’t_.”

He did not say anything, but by the look on his face, Claire knew he was thinking on the why. It was the first lesson she had given him, after he showed her veering. “You should not always have to veer into someone to understand their feelings,” she had said. “You can see it written on their faces, in their voices. You only need to see, hear, and think on it yourself.”

Then he nodded. “Do you want to climb back down?”

She stared at her bowl of forgotten food. “I suppose it’s the only way,” she said mournfully.

“What is it?”

“That climb is treacherous. Even though I remember what to do, and have the strength back to do it, I have to prepare myself.”

He frowned. “Prepare yourself for what?”

“For leaving you behind.” She lowered her head. “I can’t have both.”

He leaned forward, head in his hand. Then he touched her shoulder. “Let’s go there. I want to see.”

* * *

To Claire’s surprise, many others joined them to the cliff. Some had seen it before on their travels to Village, others had never even heard of it, and they had lived their whole lives there. Mentor, Leader, and even Kira came with them, despite her walking difficulty, with her children in tow. Gabe’s friends from the Boy’s Lodge came too--Nathaniel, Simon, Tarik and Stefan. Others she had not yet met joined them. Claire led the way, everyone always leaving a few paces between them. Alone, Claire was left to feel apprehensive. But as to why, she was unsure. Until they arrived.

“We’re here,” Claire said softly. Tentatively, she broke through the trees. Rich green grass shimmered in the wind. Where the ground ended, an expansive view of the ocean beyond greeted them. The grass was tall enough to tickle her knees as she approached the edge. The last time she had been here, it had been dark, and when Trademaster came for her, she never looked back. If she had been able to see the ocean, the incomprehensibly vast ocean, dissolve into the sky as if it was miniscule...If Einar could have seen it...

“It’s beautiful.” Kira stood behind Claire, who realized at some point she had brought herself to her knees. “How long did it take you to climb this?”

“I started before dawn and made it by twilight.”

Kira peered over the edge, examining the rough hewn stairs that descended down the face. “How old are those?” she said.

Jonas looked. “They’re from a time when the world was already old.”

Cole, a builder, came forward next to Claire. “How far do those stairs extend?”

“Not far. Just beyond that edge is the opening of a crevasse, where they end.”

He crouched. “I can make these stairs safer to climb. We’ll reinforce them with planks, make them wider. When we see this crevasse, then we can decide what to do next.”

“Build a way down, you mean?” Gabe asked.

Jonas nodded. “There’s another settlement at the foot of this cliff, cut off from the rest of the world. We all came from other settlements; it’s our responsibility to build bridges.”

“This is something that will take all of Village,” Mentor said. “I will organize the labour. Tiegen would get his workers together to collect wood, and Petr at the mill would help fashion them into planks.”

“I can begin the stairs right away, but I’ll need some workers,” Cole said.

Simon looked between his friends. “We’d help with anything we can.”

“And me.” Gabe was looking at his mother.

Then they all were.

As she wiped at her tears, they touched her back and shoulders.

* * *

The rest of the summer went by quickly, bringing with it a harsh winter. Before the first snowfall, Cole had reinforced most of the stairs. Over winter, he and other craftspeople in Village began planning and making future scaffolding based on Claire’s anecdotes of the cliff side.

Most times, she would not allow herself to think on him. “Think only on the climb,” he had said, and every moment since then, that was where she would turn to when she thought of their parting moments. She never left that cliff. Now that the way was being paved for them...she was getting ahead of herself, and allowing thoughts to bud into moments that had not happened yet.

She was in the midst of a striking green pasture, full of sheep, when Gabe said, “Why do you do them? Pulling and pushing yourself, I mean?”

She pulled herself up off the floor. “For my strength, of course.”

“But we’re building a way down.”

She crossed her legs. “Things go wrong on that cliff. When they do, you have to be able to control what comes next.”

He sat down on the floor next to her. “Can you show me how?”

Claire lowered her upper body to the floor and held herself still partway, then raised back up. Gabe tried to mimic her, with more difficulty. She did it again, and so did he.

“Would you train me?” Gabe asked.

The way he asked it, it was as if she was doing him the favour.

* * *

“The stairs are complete up to the crevasse,” Cole said, to start off their meeting. “The tunnel is too narrow to go through, so we’ll be going around. Due to the nature of the cliff face, it will take some time building the extension safely. It will help if we unfurl a rope ladder down towards the base to start building supports.”

“I can help with the length of the ladder,” Claire siad. “I remember the distance.”

Rose, Cole’s wife, produced whittled cylinders of wood. “I have several rungs already. This is about how far apart they would be.” She laid them on the table. “It would help if you tried to estimate how long of a ladder we will need with these dimensions, so Kira and I can make sure we have the supplies we need.”

“It would need to be quite long. I would guess that you would need near three hundred of these sections.”

“We don’t have enough materials for that long of rope,” Kira said, “or even two of them.”

“What kinds of materials do you need? We could gather them,” Gabe said.

“We could use old, torn linens, straw, cotton, or even feathers, if you find any.”

While Tiegen, Petr and Rose prepared wood, Gabe and his friends went door to door, collecting old scraps of cloth, then went afield to collect fibres that had begun to sprout with the advent of spring, and Kira loomed them and wove them into rope. By the time summer was merely weeks away, the ladder was made, and there had even been enough scraps left over to create a third rope.

“Just in case,” Kira said.

* * *

It was getting darker, which told her dawn was approaching. No one else had woken yet. She sat by a window which she could just barely see out of, by the moon which was sinking, making way for the coming sun. So she put on her pack, gathered the furled ladder under one arm and coiled the rope around her shoulder, and quietly left their cabin to find time alone.

By the time the world was fully lit, she was partway through the forest, and she knew they would have woken and prepared to follow her. Gabe would know why she left and ensure the others all was well.

It was a cloudless day, bright and warm when she reached the cliff. A chorus of birds had followed her all the way to the edge. The singing brought her back, and for a moment she stood with her eyes closed. He had made this sound several times, long ago.

The birds flew away, and she began her descent. The stairs were sturdy and wide, large enough that two people could walk in opposite directions and not fear tumbling over. At the crevasse, she set down her things and began reinforcing the rope ladder to the pegs left over. It was to hang beside the tunnel inside the cliff, where at the base they could build a proper platform and build more ideal stairs to the top.

She tied the rope to the end of the ladder, then slowly let it over the side. It was tedious, but easier on the rungs. They would need to be kept strong for the arduous use ahead. Once lowered, she tied the other end of the rope (of which she had great excess) to the top of the ladder, then began to climb down to untie it at the bottom.

It was no free climb on a cliff, by any means, but Claire was glad she had spent her winter honing her skills. Halfway down she had to give each arm a rest and remind herself to hang from her joints. She remembered the climb through the tunnel, and though that had taken much longer, she thought the climb down the ladder would have been much faster and easier.

The ladder was longer than it needed to be, but only by the height of two people. Once she reached the ledge at the bottom, she stepped onto it, one foot in front of the other, and pulled the ladder up towards her to untie the rope from the last rung. She held it for a moment, then looked out over the trees, so far below, and the endless ocean.

From here, the water did not seem as treacherous. Nor did the fall. Her heart was slow, her breaths deep. Cool wind passed over her skin. She closed her eyes, squared her shoulders, and took in a deep breath.

Her eyes shot open. She took another deep breath, and another.

Up above.

She turned herself and looked. It was indistinctive, but unmistakable once she saw it. Blood stained the rock from the opening of the crevasse.

She climbed the ladder a few rungs and reached sideways to grip higher up the opening. She pulled herself close and peered inside.

The smell was a strike to the chest. She reared back, coughing. The smell was on her tongue, the image stark on the backs of her eyes. She could not help but look again, and look, and look, and now she was making a whine and her heart was no longer still nor her breath deep, for there was no air to breathe.

There was just enough light to see by, and she could see a person inside, a dark huddled mass, slumped over.

“Can you hear me?” she said uselessly. She knew from the smell that whoever was inside had been gone for some time. Immediately she began to summon the faces of everyone she knew from the hamlet at the base of the cliff.

Acclimatized, she ventured into the crack carefully. She leaned against the rock wall and waited for her eyes to adjust before she approached the body. This was most likely someone she knew, and she had to look.

A burst of panic rose up, exploding in her throat, and suddenly she could not breathe. She tried to lift his head but the body was stiff with death. She knelt in all the blood and filth pooled beneath him, long since clotted and stiff as well, and shook him. She hardly noticed the smell anymore; she buried her face in his ice-cold shoulder, clung to him, and screamed.


End file.
